


to the sea doth go

by htbthomas



Category: Polly and the Pirates
Genre: Backstory, Family Secrets, Female Protagonist, Gen, Misses Clause Challenge, Pirates, Unconventional Families, Yuletide 2014
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-02 20:40:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2825432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htbthomas/pseuds/htbthomas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meg Malloy: captain, savior, lover. She is all of these as well as mother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to the sea doth go

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jamjar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamjar/gifts).



> Title from “[Tarry Trousers](http://shanty.rendance.org/lyrics/showlyric.php/tarry).”

The stagecoach driver tips his hat and pockets the gold before he climbs back onto his perch. He'll keep quiet, or at least Meg thinks he will. Between them, they've shared a sizable plunder of her fellow passengers' goods. His smile tells her that he thinks he got the lion's share.

He's sorely mistaken.

In fact, his portion is only a fraction of what she carries, mostly sewn into the linings of her clothing. Being underestimated has served her well much of her short life.

She gives him a nod and watches as he drives away before setting off herself. When the stagecoach is completely out of sight, she pulls a kerchief from a pocket and dabs at the sweat on her brow. It's less hot here on the coast, but still a blistering temperature.

Even though every gentleman and lady on the streets of the city is wilting from the heat, she mustn't show it herself. Not if she wishes to make the proper impression today. She returns her kerchief to her pocket, lifts her skirts and sets off.

She carefully eyes the clientele of each tavern as she passes. She needs a place that is far from respectable, but yet attracts a certain type of customer. She makes one long circuit of the streets of the city before deciding on the perfect establishment. The Queen. It is an older tavern, built in a time when St. Helvetia had still paid allegiance to a queen, but still well-kept. She pulls in a long draught of breath from the overheated air, and pushes her way in.

She stands in the doorway for a moment as her eyes adjust. There are several tables, a bar, and a few nooks for private meetings. The bartender eyes her up and down while she suffers his gaze proudly, but then he dismisses her, turning his attention to other customers. Paying customers, to his mind. Well, she can pay, handsomely, but she won't let him know that until he is deserving of her trust.

"Oy, missy, ya lost?" The man who addresses her wears an unsavory grin, and clothing to match. "Perraps oi c'n 'elp ya find yer way?"

His compatriots chortle and nudge each other with their elbows.

"I'm perfectly fine, thank you," she tells him, already dismissing him the way the bartender had. She's scanning the others in the room with an eye for certain traits, signs that they know their way around a ship. 

The unsavory man calls out to her again. "If ya don' need 'elp, mebbe ya c'n 'elp me. Oi moight be lookin' fer a companion fer th' noight..." His mates howl softly in appreciation. Maybe of his boldness, maybe of his choice of companions. She knows she is comely, golden hair kissed with red, pale, unmarked skin and a trim waist, but he can't know that she is barely fifteen. Some may think that marriageable age, but not Meg.

However, she must put a stop to this sort of disrespect at once. She turns slowly, a small smile growing on her face, and takes measured steps toward him. "A companion, you say?" As she walks, she pulls her dagger slowly from where it is secreted in her sleeve. "You might find me more than you can handle."

As she speaks the last word, she reaches his side and her dagger announces its presence with a painful pressure to his abdomen. He swallows, glancing down at her bared blade. "Oi see yer... point. Heh heh." He takes a step back and lifts his hands in entreaty. "Oi'll let ya be about yer bus'ness then." He pretends to doff his cap and bows to her ever-so-slightly.

When she takes a seat at the bar, the bartender eyes her with new respect. "What'll it be, miss?"

"A whiskey, if you please." She places a silver coin on the bar, its wood clean and cured smooth from years of customers.

A young man sitting two stools down, perhaps ten years her senior, places his own silver coin atop hers and slides it back. "You handled yerself well with Naff there. Yer spirit's impressive in one s'young."

She pushes back his silver coin to show she needs no charity. "Comes from long experience." In fact, between neglectful parents, uninterested servants and the devious street children she tried to befriend in an attempt to find people who cared, she'd had to fend for herself for years. When she was old enough to pass as an adult, she'd left home for good.

He takes back his coin with a grin and tips his three-cornered black hat. "Seamus MacGillicuddy, but you can call me Scrimshaw. Pleased to make yer acquaintance."

She nods back at him. "Meg Malloy, likewise." She doesn’t have a different name, but she hopes to, one day. 

She gives Scrimshaw a once over. Sunkissed skin, calloused fingers, a few visible scars, a wiry frame of the sort that comes from climbing rigging. A sailor, or more likely, a pirate. She hopes it's the latter. 

Her whiskey arrives and she takes a sip. It bears a pleasant, oaky taste, but is not too strong. It will do nicely. "More for my new friend," she requests. "And a private table, if you please?"

Scrimshaw frowns, his eyebrows drawing down. "I'm 'fraid you may have gotten the wrong impression, Miss Malloy. I—"

"Settle yourself, my good man. I do not wish to offer you a night of companionship."

He blushes. "I didn' mean to imply that you—"

She appreciates his attempts to apologize, but they are not necessary. "I wish to offer you employment."

His expression turns from chagrin to interest. Very good. She is sure, even from their brief interaction, that he will become the cornerstone of her new crew. Then to acquire a ship. She's already picked out a name, as grand and ambitious as the new life she sees before her. The Titania.

* * *

"Ahoy there, do you need assistance?"

The young man looks up from his small lifeboat with a terrified expression. He takes in her wraparound blouse and full black skirts, the bandanna tied around her head and her long blonde braid, and lastly, her very sharp cutlass. He had probably not expected to encounter a pirate ship when he flagged them down, let alone the notorious Queen Meg.

While he studies her, she does the same. His clothing is plain but well-made, though it appears to have weathered a number of days of rough weather and sweat. His blond hair is so fair as to almost be white. Scandinavian stock, she'd wager.

He shivers in the brisk autumn wind, though his skin is red from wind- and sunburn. "I—" he begins, his voice gravelly from lack of water. He clears his throat, "I seem to be stranded."

Scrimshaw comes up beside her. "Where're yer mates, lad?"

The young man lifts his chin. "I'm afraid I'm alone, sir. My previous employers..." He looks away, embarrassed, for a moment before the pride comes back. "...were unhappy with my service."

Scrimshaw chuckles. "Tough luck, eh lad?"

He nods, then turns his eyes on Meg. "Better luck now, I hope."

Meg considers for a moment. Her crew is a perfect number, all loyal men to the last man, all worthy. Is this young scamp worthy? Though giving him a second glance, he's really not much younger than she, given her early start in the business.

Scrimshaw murmurs low. "Suppose we've got room fer another cabin boy, if yer so inclined." 

The young man's face is starting to fall—imagining that he will indeed die here in the middle of the ocean as his previous employers intended. But she cannot let such a thing happen. His clothing marks him as the servant of a mercantile ship. A ship much like the fleet her family had owned, before she took them down. If this company operated in the same way, this young man could have been put out over an imagined slight. Even if he proved untrustworthy, he might prove to be useful. If not, better a quick death at the end of a sword than a slow death of thirst, starvation and exposure.

Meg sets her face to stone; it is best to let the new hires believe she has little pity. "Bring him aboard, Mr. Scrimshaw. You can put him to work once he has recovered strength enough."

"My deepest thanks," he tells her as he climbs over the side, no longer looking frightened. He holds out his hand to shake hers, and despite a voice inside telling her to ignore it and walk away, she takes it.

His grip is firm and steady, and the contact lingers for longer than needed. Then he smiles, and her heart stops, just an instant, but the shock of it lasts long enough to leave her tongue-tied.

Scrimshaw steps in and shakes the young man's hand next. "Welcome aboard, lad. Mr...?"

"Pringle," he answers with a glance at Meg. "Archie Pringle."

"Welcome, Archie," she tells him coolly, her heart back under control. She nods to a crewman to get him settled.

As he walks away, she murmurs to Scrimshaw. "Watch that one. I fear he will either see me to victory—or see my end."

Scrimshaw seems to take her meaning, saluting her with a solemn, "Aye, Captain."

* * *

Archie stops in the doorway, the mild Caribbean light shining from behind makes his hair appear an ever brighter halo. "I came as soon as I could, my dearest. The airship had to fight its way through a nasty winter squall up north before we reached quieter breezes here. I—" 

His words halt when he sees her, weak and abed. 

"Meg!" His face goes ashen with worry, and he begins to rush to her side.

"Stop!" she commands, though her voice is weaker than she wishes. "I will not have you struck down by this infernal illness as well."

He pauses, and she can see he is holding himself back by sheer force of will. "What has you in its grip?" he asks quietly.

She chuckles, and it turns into a hacking cough. "How amusing," she says finally, wiping at her mouth with a well-used kerchief. "It is indeed La Grippe."

Archie does not seem amused at the news. He knows as well as she that many lives have been lost to the deadly disease, and that it is highly contagious. She would not have exposed him to it at all, except...

"I have been keeping something from you, Archie." The words come out slowly—this is harder than she imagined it would be. "I should have shared it with you long ago, only, I am a selfish woman, as you well know."

He shakes his head, a small jerk of denial. "You are the most generous woman I have ever known, Meg Malloy, nay, the most generous person. I dare say, I would not stand here without your generosity."

She gazes on him before speaking, on his fine clothing purchased at her behest, at his fashionable grooming and manicured appearance, every inch of him the gentleman she had trained him to become. He has been her envoy, her spy in the civilized world where she can no longer pass unremarked upon. His mission, by nature, has forced the long months apart that have easily hidden her secret. "As that may be, I still beg your forgiveness."

"Forgiveness for what?" His tone implies he cannot believe she has anything to apologize for. But he is wrong.

She whistles a ship's call, faint but clear, and Scrimshaw appears in the doorway. "Mr. Scrimshaw, if you would?"

Scrimshaw nods and comes into the room just a step, as she has ordered. At the end of his hand is little Polly, her small fingers wrapped around just one of his. Polly sees Meg, there in bed, and reaches with the other hand toward her. "Mama?" Her little voice is plaintive. Meg has not allowed the child to come near since she realized her cough and body aches had taken a turn for the worse.

Archie has turned toward Polly's voice and stands there unmoving as a statue, if a statue could also move its face through a range of expressions. Without turning, he whispers, "Is this..?"

"Polly," Meg says, and though it is probably unnecessary, she adds, "Your daughter."

He shoots Meg a brief look of consternation, but immediately goes to one knee before Polly, whose eyes have now fixated on the stranger. "Polly," he repeats, the name rolling gently around his mouth. "May I—" He turns to Scrimshaw, whose face is as somber as if it were his own love who lay dying. "May I hold her?"

"Ye had t'right of it afore. 'Tis Polly ye should ask, lad."

Archie holds out his hand to Polly. "Hello, Polly. What a pretty girl you are." When she doesn't cry or try to cower behind Scrimshaw, Archie takes her hand and smiles at her. Her eyes go round and she catches her breath. She's a goner, just like her mother before her. Before long, she's up in his arms, cooing and giggling, the connection instant.

Meg sinks into the bed with relief, her breath rattling out with a wheeze. She glances at the wooden box on the table beside the bed. In it are instructions for Archie, in the case of her death. For now, she can barely keep her eyes open, but she uses the last of her failing strength to do so. She doesn't want to miss a moment of the two people she loves most in the world bonding.

* * *

When he has finished his tale, Father hands her a letter, his eyes pricking with tears. "This was delivered to me just after she died." The vellum is old, discolored from being handled countless times. Polly doesn't recognize the handwriting, the lines erratic as if penned by a shaking hand. She immediately skips to the end for the signature. _Your dearest Meg_.

Polly shivers, though the spring breezes outside do not touch her within the airship's walls. She has captained her mother's ship, fought with her mother's blade, walked through her mother's nearly empty treasure trove, but somehow, holding this letter, she feels more connected to her than ever.

As Polly reads from the top, her father continues. "She wanted you safe, living in comfort and well-loved. To know right from wrong, to become a strong, modern woman." He clears his throat. "And to learn the truth of your heritage when you had come of age." He chuckles, a sound full of self-flagellation. "I should have known the day would come much sooner than anticipated."

"Indeed." The letter is detailed, outlining the location of the treasure trove, with instructions for its use, as well as a list of contacts throughout the known world to help them set up a new, respectable life. She looks up from the letter, and gazes on her father with new respect. It seems that he too had taken to a far different life than the one to which he had been born. 

"I hope you'll forgive her," Father says, "Forgive _us_."

"Of course, Father." Polly folds the letter carefully, tucking it into her blouse beside her heart. She will read and reread it later, in privacy. "Though I fear you may need to forgive me a few transgressions as well."

One eyebrow rises. "Oh?"

She stands. "Set a course for a new heading." She rattles off the digits with ease and the other eyebrow joins the first. His mouth drops open when she adds, "I'd like you to get reacquainted with my crew."


End file.
